The Probate That Would Not Die

When my mother shuffled off her mortal coil, I assumed that the ensuing probate would be done in six to eight weeks, probably the typical amount of time it takes — it was about that long when my father died.

The probate for my mother’s estate has gone on for a staggering six and a half years. I keep thinking, “Surely it must be done by now,” but no, it keeps going on. The lawyers who are sitting on this probate don’t return phone calls. My brother, who is supposed to be handling inquiries related to the estate, has changed his phone number and I don’t know what the new one is, and he doesn’t, of course, respond to emails.

I really don’t see the point, karmically, of me having to cope with non-communicative persons who really should be communicating.

The house (which is part of the probate) continues to deteriorate. There are buckets in the attic to catch the rain or melted snow when it comes through the roof. I’ve had the roof tarped twice (can’t afford it again), and the tarp has shifted, therefore the need for buckets upstairs.

I have been trying to get into new housing, but I am still waiting on the public housing list, will likely not move up on the list unless I get some kind of government aid that pays more than General Assistance, or if I, by some miracle, get a job, which I doubt.

Therefore I appeal to the luck of the Irish (I’m not Irish, is half-Danish close enough?) to shine upon me, to noodle a suitable or vaguely suitable job my way, or to light a fire under the bums of the probate lawyers.

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About Mary Borchard

Fabulous art available.
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